Page 2 of Rogue Knight
“You would only put yourself in their sights, my lady, were you to do aught. Feigr will protect her, and see, now the townspeople have stopped to watch.”
Keeping her hand on Magnus, Emma turned toward the gathering crowd, a frown on every face. It was not the first time the people of York had seen the Normans seize what was not theirs. Since the garrison of knights had come earlier in the year, fear rode the streets of York like an ever-present phantom. But this time there was more than fear in the eyes of the people. There was outrage.
Reaching his stall, Inga’s father stepped between his sobbing daughter and the knight, breaking the man’s hold on her arm. Though smaller than the knight in stature, long years of working with metal had given Feigr brawny shoulders and arms. He faced the knight, his bearded chin raised in defiance, his stance sure.
The knight clenched his fists and leaned into Feigr, touching the sword-maker’s chest with his own, a threat apparent to all.
Emma tensed, worried for Feigr should the three knights attack him together. At her side, Magnus resumed his low growl. Removing her hand from her seax, she stroked the rough fur on his neck to calm him.
The murmurs of the townspeople grew boisterous as they stared at the unfolding drama, their gazes condemning the effrontery of the French knight who dared lay hands on a maiden of York.
One of the knights turned to look at the crowd, then strode to his companion who was confronting Feigr. Placing his hand on the knight’s shoulder, he whispered something in his companion’s ear.
The knight jerked his shoulder away. “What is one of them to so many of us?” he challenged.
“A crowd gathers. The wench will keep, Eude. We are expected back at the castle.”
With a speaking glance at Inga that sent a shiver of fear through Emma, the knight called Eude shrugged and joined his fellow Normans.
As the three of them swaggered away from the stall, Eude made a rude gesture that caused his fellow knights to bellow their laughter.
Rage choked Emma. Had they planned the whole affair taking the sword to lure Feigr away from his shop?
As the French knights sauntered down the street, relief replaced Emma’s anger. She was thankful for the crowd of townspeople that had come. Their show of strength had no doubt kept the knights from doing worse.
“Thank God I did not bring Finna and Ottar,” she muttered beneath her breath. The last thing she wanted was for the two young orphans who lived under her protection to have witnessed the assault on her friend.
The crowd dispersed, shaking their heads.
With Magnus at her side, Emma rushed across the street to where Inga’s father comforted his daughter. Both were clearly shaken by what had happened.
“Oh, Inga. I am so sorry. Are you all right?”
Gray eyes, wide with fear, looked up at Emma. Barely sixteen, Inga had shouldered much since her mother’s death two winters before, helping her father with his shop as well as their home. Emma, seven years older, had lost her own mother at a young age and knew well the emptiness it left. She tried to look after the younger woman, for there was no son to help Feigr, no other child.
Not knowing what to say, Emma reached her hand to touch Inga’s arm in solace. The gesture brought little comfort, for Inga turned her face into her father’s broad chest and sobbed.
Feigr’s eyes glared his hatred as his gaze followed the French knights disappearing down the street.
In the distance the tall square tower of the Norman castle loomed over the city like a great vulture’s nest.
***
Talisand, Lune River Valley, northwest England, February 1069
“’Tis enough!” Sir Geoffroi de Tournai called as he sheathed his sword and strode from the practice yard outside the palisade fence. Passing through the gate, he entered the bailey, heading toward the stairs leading up to the timbered castle, his sweat chilled by the frigid winter air. Having seen the king’s messenger ride in through the gate, he was anxious to know what that ominous arrival portended.
Geoff stepped into the great hall where sunlight sifted through the shuttered windows to cast pale streams of light onto the herbed rushes strewn on the floor. Built less than a year before, it still smelled of new wood. But stronger was the spicy aroma of mutton stew. His mouth watered as he imagined tender chunks of meat in rich sauce and butter dripping from a thick slice of bread. Suddenly he was starving.
“I suppose ye have a yearning for some of me stew after all yer swordplay,” observed Maggie coming toward him, a twinkle in her green eyes.
As Talisand’s cook, the plump Maggie held a special place in his heart. When he and the Red Wolf had arrived to claim Talisand the year before, Maggie was the first of the English to accept them, mayhap the only one at the beginning. That her husband was the blacksmith rendered the pair indispensable. To knights who wore chain mail, fought with blades of steel and rode iron-shod warhorses, the blacksmith was most valuable, a good one, like Maggie’s husband, highly prized.
“A picture of your stew has been with me all morn, Maggie, but I must see the Red Wolf before I eat.” Sir Renaud de Pierrepont was the Earl of Talisand by King William’s decree, but Geoff still thought of him as he’d known him years before, the knight named for the beast he had slain with his bare hands.
Before Geoff could head toward the Red Wolf’s chamber, Maugris approached, his ancient blue eyes shining out of his weathered face framed by gray hair that was ever in disarray. A Norman, who had come with them to England more than two years before, Maugris was neither a soldier nor a servant, nor the wizard the people of Talisand had at first thought him. He was a wise man and a seer who directed his own fate. It struck Geoff then, as it always did, how nimble the old man was in both mind and body. Maugris had been the first of them to learn the English tongue.
Geoff’s gaze shifted to the door of the bedchamber where the Red Wolf lay.
